5. Gideon
GIDEON
With each curve in the road, my heart pumped a little bit faster.
Approaching the mailboxes felt less like retrieving mail and more like gearing up for overtime.
It had been three days since I’d seen Piper, and I couldn’t stop thinking about her laugh and the way that her neck smelled, like vanilla mixed with her sweat.
That sounds weird, but what can I say, I don’t make the pheromone rules.
There was one good thing about my cat squatter: he gave me an excuse to go home right after practice. I still hadn’t given the little bastard a name as I was delusional enough to think a family was still going to claim him.
You only name something if you plan on keeping it.
Naming him would be an admission that I was going to take care of the clawed menace for the next fifteen years. And I didn’t do attachments like that.
Before she pulled the proverbial parachute the other day, Piper promised that she would let me know if someone responded to the post. Part of me was pissed she’d cut things off, and the other part was just plain confused.
At least if she’d pulled a true Cinderella and left a shoe behind, I’d have an excuse to drop by unannounced. Fighting the urge once again, I pulled into my garage and tried to forget about the woman who lived one driveway away.
I opened the door to the house and was met with silence.
“Hey, kitty,” I called out. At the sound of my voice, he crashed through the hallway and down the stairs like he weighed two hundred pounds, not just two.
I thought cats were supposed to be light on their feet, but this cat was part kitty, part Godzilla.
He skidded across the floor, sliding into my feet. This time, when I picked him up, my fingertips couldn’t circle his body. Was it possible for a kitten to double in size in three days? His purrs vibrated my entire hand. A sudden urge to cuddle him came over me, so instead, I set him on the ground.
He wove around my feet and dug his dagger claws into my jeans, treating my leg like a cat tree.
I managed to extract him and dropped into my recliner, but I wasn’t there two seconds and dagger paws hopped on my chest, purring as he head-butted the scruff on my chin.
Luckily, he’d decided to keep his claws tuned up on the fancy Italian leather sofa and not on the vintage duct-taped chair.
I scratched his head as he rubbed his face on mine.
“What do you want to watch, little guy?”
I scrolled through my saved list until I found the most recent Toronto Tigers game.
They were coming to the fishbowl this weekend, and I wanted to study their plays.
Cat curled up on my chest, and I absentmindedly stroked his head.
I skipped to the middle of the game, where the Tigers scored their first goal.
It was easy to pick Ace out of the Tigers’ lineup—he danced around the other players.
I slowed the playback, watching as the team executed the play perfectly.
They were good. Ace and I hadn’t faced off against each other since I left, and our upcoming match-up had been a sports news headline for the past week.
After finishing the game, I went outside and checked on the potatoes slow roasting on the grill. Inside, I seasoned a New York striploin.
A past girlfriend joked about me being meat and potatoes guy .
She meant it as an insult, but I didn’t take it that way.
Growing up, our mom had been a simple cook.
Our meals were basic, and having two teenage hockey players over six feet tall, our grocery bill must have been astronomical.
Mom did her best to make us healthy food on our parents’ small income.
Unfortunately, back then, Ace and I had hated it.
Ungrateful bastards.
At school, we had been teased for our homemade fruit roll-ups and sandwiches on thick bread, while all of our friends had the store-bought kind and Lunchables. At six foot seven, three inches taller than Ace, I attributed my size to her simple ingredient cooking.
I still cook that way for myself, but Ace prefers takeout. I swear the guy lives on pizza and beer. I stepped onto the back deck, closely followed by my temporary roommate, put the steaks on the grill, and sat on a lounger next to my pool.
Just as I started to relax, my phone buzzed with a text message. I picked it up and shielded my eyes from the glare of the setting sun.
Ace: Did you find the cat? (cat emoji, smile emoji, peach emoji)
I had been so preoccupied with Piper and the cat drama I’d forgotten to check in with my brother. The last he heard, I’d been out looking for a cat.
Me: It’s complicated.
Ace: I knew it. What’s her name?
The cat scampered across the patio, chasing a fly. “Get it, little dude,” I whispered.
Shit. I had to make a decision: take him to the animal shelter or keep him. The cat looked at me, then crouched into stalker mode, wiggling his butt before launching at the bug. He missed.
Catching myself laughing, I took a photo of him and sent it to Ace.
Ace: That’s a kitten
Me: No shit Sherlock
Ace: Why do you have your neighbor’s cat?
Smoke billowed out of the barbecue as I lifted the lid to flip the steak and roll the potatoes.
Me: It looks like I have a cat now
Ace: WTF. You hate cats.
The three text dots came and went a couple of times, but instead of a goofy message, my phone lit up with a call.
I answered the phone. “I told you, it’s complicated.”
“I’m so confused,” Ace replied. “The other night, you were out with your neighbor, looking for her cat. I could tell by the tone of your voice that she was hot. I thought that ‘looking for a cat’ was code for I’m getting laid .
Now, you have an actual cat, and let me guess, didn’t end up in bed with your hot soccer mom neighbor. ”
“That pretty much sums it up.” I could hear Goldie in the background asking a bunch of questions. “She’s not a soccer mom though.”
“I guess Goldie was wrong. Hold on, she wants to talk to you.” There was some shuffling, and then Goldie’s voice came through the speaker.
“Hi, Gideon.”
“Hi, Goldie-Girl.” Ace’s nickname for Goldie had spread amongst the family. I held my breath and wondered if she could tell I had a mega crush on my neighbor. My brother’s wife had the craziest intuition and knew things she couldn’t possibly know.
“Why do you have your neighbor’s cat?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s a crazy story. The cat’s, not hers. She found hers that night, but I didn’t know. In the morning, this little guy was in the bush on the side of the road. I thought it was her cat, so I stopped and picked him up.”
“You picked up the wrong cat? That is wild, Gideon. Are you going to keep him?” I could practically hear her smiling through the phone.
Both she and Ace were animal lovers and doted on their dog, Morton.
They were the annoying couple who made up voices and spoke as if they were the damn dog themselves.
Their version of the malamute’s voice sounded like a cross between Scooby-Doo and Austin Powers.
It was so sickeningly cute I couldn’t bring myself to point out the obvious flaw—that a malamute wouldn’t have a British accent.
The cat wound around my feet as I prodded the steak with my finger, then let out one of his signature yowls. “Ohhhh.” Goldie gushed through the phone. “I can hear him. Please tell me that you’re keeping him.”
Ace shouted in the background. “Gideon hates cats.”
Satisfied that the steaks were medium rare, I transferred them and the potatoes to a platter. “I’m still hoping that he belongs to someone and is just lost. I can’t have a cat.”
“Why not?” Goldie asked.
Why not? I didn’t have a good reason. Other than I was way too busy, and oh yeah, I didn’t want a cat . I tucked the phone between my head and shoulder to slide the patio door open with the toe of my flip-flop. The cat bounded inside and squawked at his food bowl.
“What are you guys up to tonight?” I set my dinner on the counter and tried not to gag as I prepared the cat his watered-down pate.
“Don’t change the subject.” Goldie’s voice lowered. “The cat distribution system chose you, Gideon. That cat came to you for a reason. You have to keep him.”
The kitten purred while he lapped the disgusting mash of food. “What the hell is the cat distribution system?” Goldie had always been a bit “out-there,” so comments like this didn’t faze me anymore.
“You’ve been chosen,” Ace shouted from the background in a goofy English accent.
Goldie’s laugh resonated through the phone. “Morton has spoken. What’s his name?”
“Calico Cat,” I grumbled.
“That’s lame,” the English accent in the background shouted.
“And you can’t talk,” I shouted at Morton/Ace. “My neighbor posted about the lost cat on the community page. It’s only a matter of time before the owner comes to get him.”
“Mmmhmmm.” Goldie’s dubious response echoed my own thoughts. “Well, I can’t wait to meet C.C. the Calico Cat. I love kittens.”
“You can take him home with you, then.” I put the phone on the counter and jabbed the speaker button so I could unwrap the potatoes.
“Goldie, darling. Please do tell Gideon that I’m allergic to cats,” the British accent proclaimed from the background.
Goldie giggled, and I rolled my eyes. “You two are the worst.”
“Sorry, Gideon. Morton says that he’s allergic to cats, and also, he thinks you’re going to lose the game Sunday night.”
“Put that damn dog on the phone.” I tried to sound angry, but between the cute kitten darting around the kitchen and the conversation with my brother and sister-in-law, I couldn’t muster up my signature grumpy tone.
“See you tomorrow. Mwah.” Goldie passed the phone back to Ace.
“Are you guys staying for a couple of days?” Ace had mentioned staying in Miami after the Barracuda/Tiger match-up, but since I had been a little preoccupied with my hot neighbor, I’d completely forgotten about the plan.
“We’re going to stay one extra day. Goldie has to get back for school on Tuesday. Can we come and see your new place tomorrow?”
“As long as you don’t have that mutt with you.” I unwrapped the potato and jostled it between my hands before dropping the ten-million-degree carb bomb on my plate. “Ow. Dammit.”
Ace laughed as I ran my hands under cold water. “Did you burn yourself on a potato? Haven’t you learned that those are hot yet?”
“Just like you haven’t learned how to turn on an oven yet.” It wasn’t the first time I’d scorched the fingerprints off my hands, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.
“He can make deviled eggs now!” Goldie shouted from the background.
“I’m sure your house smells amazing.” I dried my hands on a tea towel.
“They don’t smell that bad.” Ace didn’t get my innuendo.
“I think he’s talking about your farts.” Goldie took on Morton’s accent. “They’re almost as bad as mine. Pardon me, I mean, my flatulence.”
“Dear Lord.” I shook my head. “You two are welcome here anytime. Even with that farting dog. I’m sure C.C. will put him in his place.” I tried out Goldie’s name for Cat. It suited him.
“It will just be the two of us. Fern is dog sitting. Although I’m pretty sure Morton will be the one doing the sitting.”
Goldie’s mom, Fern Lauper, looked like she’d stepped off a Stevie Nicks album cover and was one of the kindest but flakiest women I’d ever met. Ace’s assessment of her sub-malamute level of responsibility was pretty accurate. “I can’t wait to see you,” I said.
“Same, brother.” A temporary stillness filled the air. “I love you,” Ace said.
After an entire year thinking we hated each other, we were trying hard to patch things up. We didn’t grow up using the L-word, so this was new territory for both of us. It came easier for Ace, but I was trying.
“Same. Tell the Tigers to watch out for the Barracuda bite.”
Ace laughed. I would tell him that I loved him next time. “I’m pretty sure that tigers could eat a barracuda. Hey, Goldie,” Ace shouted. “Can barracudas kill a tiger?”
The doorbell rang. Before Goldie could weigh in, I cut the call short. “There’s someone at the door, and my steak is getting cold. See you tomorrow.”
C.C. followed me to the front door. I exhaled before I let myself look through the peephole.
A familiar ponytail. Piper. My breath hitched in my throat. After days of replaying her smile in my mind, she was actually here.